Double-decker
by chasingriver
Summary: Mycroft has never taken a bus. Greg isn't trying to make a point. Really, he's not.


"What do you mean, you've never been on a bus?" Greg said.

They were relaxing in front of the telly—something Mycroft never would have done before he met him, but Greg had slowly convinced him of the merits of mindless entertainment, and now they only disagreed on which programs they watched. Greg usually won, because Mycroft didn't really mind what was on, as long as Greg curled up next to him on the sofa.

"Exactly what I said: I've never been on a bus. When do you imagine I'd have had the opportunity?"

"You live in London. You have the opportunity every day."

"Perhaps 'opportunity' wasn't the right word. 'Desire' might have been more accurate."

"Don't be such a snob," Greg teased, prodding Mycroft's calf with his foot. "You never took one on school trips or anything?"

He frowned, trying to remember. "Now that you mention it, there was an interminable trip to the beach once. It must have scarred me for life."

They both watched the screen avidly as a double-decker bus careered around a racetrack, trying to stay upright at speeds and forces it was never meant to endure. Top Gear was one of Greg's favourite programs, and Mycroft had secretly developed quite a taste for it as well.

"That does it—we're taking the bus to work tomorrow."

"What? _You_ don't even take the bus."

"That's not the point."

"What is the point, exactly?"

"There doesn't always have to be a point. I just want you to take the bus."

* * *

The next day dawned miserable and wet, and the splash from the passing cars and the incessant rain made the bottoms of their trousers wet. He gave Greg a _look_. Standing at the bus stop, waiting for their particular bus—two others had already gone by—he said, "Are you sure today was the best day for this?"

Greg huddled a little closer to him under his ubiquitous umbrella. "C'mon. How often do you get to use this thing? I'll make it up to you."

Mycroft smiled at the concession. He wasn't upset, exactly—more mildly irritated by the fact that his trousers were damp and this whole thing was just an _I'm-not-proving-a-point_ exercise on Greg's part. Truth be told, he'd have taken a unicycle to work if Greg had asked him to. He was lucky it was only a bus trip; he didn't know how to ride a unicycle.

Greg spotted their bus coming and got out his Oyster card. Mycroft gave him a questioning look.

"Oh, no. You don't have one, do you?"

Mycroft smiled vaguely and shook his head.

"I don't know how much the fare is. Do you have any coins? I'm not sure if they make change."

"With all due respect, love, do I look like I carry change?"

"Good point." He started fishing around in his coat. "Ah, here you go," he said, handing him a few quid.

Once they'd got on and paid, they glanced around for seats. There weren't any.

"Do you want to ride on top?" Greg asked with a cheeky grin.

"Is that some sort of euphemism?"

"What do you think? C'mon, let's go upstairs. Maybe there'll be seats and a better view."

* * *

The view _would_ have been better—if it hadn't been pouring with rain. The water clung obstinately to the windows, turning their surroundings into a van Gogh-inspired cityscape of random shapes and colours. It didn't help that the passengers' damp raincoats fogged the insides of the windows.

"I will admit," Greg said grudgingly, "this might not have been the best day to do this."

He had a rough idea of the route the bus would take, but the obscured windows and infrequent stop announcements made it difficult to tell where they were. Once he got his bearings, he realised—with a sickening lurch—that they'd just passed Mycroft's stop. He threw himself at the stop-request cord, but it wouldn't do them much good; they'd still be in for a walk. Well, Mycroft would be in for a walk, and if he had any sense of chivalry he'd get off and make the walk with him, then take the tube the rest of the way to his office.

Mycroft saw the look of panic on Greg's face. "Did we just miss our stop, by any chance?"

Greg thought he detected a note of a smugness in his voice. "Brilliant observation. Come on, let's get downstairs so we don't miss the next one."

When they got off the bus, it had stopped raining, and the sun was making a valiant effort to break through the clouds.

Mycroft smiled at him—a genuine smile. "This way," he said, heading towards his building with a spring in his step; they were close enough that he knew the area well.

Greg couldn't figure out his change in demeanour. "You're allowed to be smug, you know," he said. "This was a disaster."

"I thought you weren't proving a point."

"I wasn't, but if I had been, I would have just lost spectacularly."

Mycroft looked down at his trousers and shrugged. "These'll dry, and it was certainly entertaining. And I believe there was some sort of promise made to let me be on top—"

Greg chuckled. "Like that'll be a burden."

"—and I'm making you watch at least one episode of Brideshead Revisited."

"Ah."

"But I won't make you stay awake."

Greg smiled. Curling up with Mycroft and dozing through costume dramas: there were worse fates.


End file.
